On Friday, January 20th, 2017, political activists from dozens of German and International organizations rallied together in Berlin to protest the encroachment of far right politics around the world. Around 650 supporters met in front of the Alternativ für Deutschland Berlin office, then marched through the streets and met an additional 400-500 supporters waiting at the Brandenburg Gate.

It was a peaceful protest organized by The Coalition Berlin, but bursting with emotion. The hundreds of attendees chanted for the protection of progress across many issues such as climate change, sexual and ethnic diversity, gender equality, religious freedom, and much more.

The media is busy covering such rallies this weekend that are happening across the United States and in 600+ marches worldwide, and many of those images will be feature the placards, banners, and motivational speakers.

I’ve been floored by divinity, and I’m not a particularly spiritual person.

I met her in a gold-trimmed room with no walls somewhere in the middle of Bali. We were hours away from the 5-star resorts and yoga studios and blonde tourists from far-off lands. I’d come through miles of hazy, chaotic roads and rice fields to find — unexpectedly — a sumptuous Asian courtyard straight out of a painting.

With the grandfather clock in the corner, the carefully manicured plants, and the crisp, colorful paint, she appeared quite well-off. In other cultures, such grandeur may indeed be indicative for her post as ratu pedanda, or Brahmana high priestess, but Hindu priests are not paid. Any income comes only in the form of offerings from the people.

All that shone around me was testament to her value and reverence.

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Meeting her was a turning point in my photographic and emotional journey. I’d been in Indonesia for several days observing the spirituality of its people as an outsider. As neither a true Asian nor American nor European, nobody had known what to make of me. I have always approached religion with a scientific and psychological interest. Perhaps this detachment and my innate strangeness prevented me from connecting and feeling.

But when she came out of her quarters and stepped up into the room and placed herself on the ground in the most humble fashion, she took my breath away. Her gait was difficult and hunched, her legs and feet far more accustomed to being folded beneath her. It was clear she spent more of her time seated than in motion. And as her family brought us cups of hot, sweet tea and went about their duties of laundry and ceremonial preparation, this was proven certainly true.

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While I sat in a throne-like chair below the priestess and listened to my translator conversing with her, I had all the time in the world to take it all in. Beautiful pet roosters with firework plumes crowed in their ornamental cages, adding a wild country atmosphere to the existing twitter of songbirds and the morning sun.

The priestess welcomed us, strangers, with all her heart. She was swathed in modest white and blue, her feet comfortably bare and knobbed beneath her sarong, her high forehead and earlobes daubed with a pinch of sacred rice. Priestesses in Bali twist their hair in complicated knots, indicating their position in society, adorned with the fresh flowers that are everywhere in the damp tropical climate.

“How old are you?” I asked, via my translator.

“67 years,” she replied, “and earlier, and ongoing.”

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But beyond her elder beauty was an unshakeable grace and delicacy. Such a quiet, humble woman who at the same time radiated immense power. Her hands were a dancer’s hands, long elegant fingers that were born to command. I’d later see those hands in motion, adorned with ceremonial gemstones, holding blossoms to her lips in prayer, and weaving twists of incense smoke from the earthly world to the one above.

Those hands would cover her mouth when she laughed. Her laugh was an unexpectedly young giggle, so charmingly sweet and different from the otherwise serious woman she had become.

She, who has devoted her entire life to her spirituality, wanted to know all about us and how we came to be here.

She, the embodiment of divine power, gave us a complete and open invitation to photograph everything she needed to do over the next few days for her people.

She, chosen as the most recent in the ever-turning cycle of lives, shared all the stories of her previous life: her father, her late husband, the prophecy of her dreams.

She introduced us to her son, in training to become the next priest, and her daughter, a hairdresser come home to repent for building a temple without divine permission. This is a harsh reality for an American atheist to hear, but a powerful message about Balinese culture and the ties that bind one’s family and the gods.

Balinese priests live two lives: They are both the vessel of divine communication as well as ordinary people who live ordinary lives with their families.

Unlike Hinduism in other countries, there is no “untouchability” in Balinese castes. She was embodying this to the fullest degree in opening her life’s doors to me. When the pouring rains doused the cremation ceremony, she paused chanting her prayers to ensure someone fetched me an umbrella.

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I was tremendously honored to not just have found a female spiritual leader in a land with specific and traditional gender roles, but to also be invited to witness her work. While it is true that the people of Bali nearly always smile at us “guests,” that smile is not always the permission it seems.

One may never walk off the beaten path due to fear, lack of time, or simply a lack of interest. But this singular experience of being inspired by Tabanan’s high priestess while capturing a photo story on Balinese women is a reminder that taking such detours will certainly be worth the risk.

Today, U.S. expats in Berlin mobilized under Avaaz.org to receive their ballots and vote in the 2016 elections.

Some 110,000 U.S. citizens live in Germany, which is one of the largest concentrations of American citizens outside of North America. In all, there are approximately 8 million expats living abroad, yet just 12% of them have voted in the previous election.

Russia in May is one pulsating, flag-waving, red-flagged orgy of celebration. City workers set up barricades and hung flags, every pane of glass boasted the red star + orange ribbon decal for winning over the Nazi regime. Loudspeakers on the metro escalators played peppy marches and chipper victory tunes to get you ready.

It rang in my head nonstop for two weeks, and long into every night.

On the streets, boys too young to remember any wars wore green blankets over their shoulders like soldiers, handing ribbons and CDs of victory marches for the elderly to enjoy at home. (I grabbed two! Best souvenir ever.) Children wore their best baggy-thighed uniforms. Ladies wore their best pink heels and skirts to stand on the street and not see a thing.

Theoretically, somewhere several miles away, Putin and his cronies addressed the world while the most modern of all armored fighting vehicles rolled down Tverskaya Street toting missiles and all the latest weapons of mass destruction.

Drunk old men yelling at said insecure teenaged boys wearing police uniforms

Drunk bros climbing said public works vehicles

Bored teenagers selling retro military beanies with red stars pinned on them

Bastions of older policemen wearing blue camo uniforms, twice as angry and with triple the machismo

Hundreds of people standing on curbs with the sad, sad hope of getting a tiny glimpse of what they’re supposed to be seeing

After several hours of this, I conclude that Victory Day, while celebrating victory over the Nazis and saving Russia’s people, is not really a celebration for Russians. Not for the tourist looking for cultural enrichment, or for the old lady whose father died in the war. How can it be? It’s impossible for the normal joes to get anything out of this, save for a free CD and maybe an 750 RUB ($15) hat or an orange ribbon.

Victory Day is a giant nut-waving show for international media.

I eventually returned to our third-floor apartment hoping to see more than just the backs of civilian heads. By hanging out of the apartment window and squinting through the never-cleaned glass of a disused elevator shaft, I could see the occasional twitch of movement indicating a tank rolling by.

And the crowd went wild.

Victory Day is a really, really good excuse.

It’s the strangest, most passive celebration I’ve experienced in my life, but if I take the lens of biased Americanism off, it makes a lot of sense: It’s a topic on which we can agree. It’s secular, a sense of patriotism and pride in a world where we’re not always friends. It’s an excuse to get to know your neighbors on a rare day off, and appreciate everything you’ve got and the people around you.